Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series) (11 page)

She chuckled, shaking her head, remembering the cowboy attire she’d tossed at him and his, “You’ve gotta be kidding me, Cooke.” After several minutes of her coaxing and teasing, he shoved the curtain aside and strutted out in the plaid shirt, skintight jeans, boots, and Stetson, posing. Numerous women had stopped to stare at his muscular body filling out his clothes in all the right places. His mischievous eyes had stared into hers while he grinned, and she’d fought not to swallow her tongue as her hormones shot into overdrive. The outfit had been meant as a joke, but he’d had the last laugh when he chased her around the store calling her ‘little lady’ and forced her into a spirited dosey doe. Then they’d both laughed as they clung together, spinning round and round.

Her smile faded. She wanted that moment back. Tucker was quiet again. As soon as they piled into the Jeep and started up the winding road to the house, his sense of humor vanished and the mysterious tension came back, robbing him of his gorgeous smile. He spoke more now than he did last night, but he wasn’t the same.

What was it about this place that made him so unhappy? Surely there was something. She glanced around at the beautiful view through the large picture windows, the top-of-the-line furnishings, and spacious guest bathroom beyond, dumbfounded by how such a spectacular place could make anyone sad.

Shrugging off her curiosity, she took off her jacket and scarf and headed for the closet to put away her new items. She wanted to ask what was bothering him, but he made it more than clear that he didn’t want to talk about it. Growing up with Ethan made her wise to the ways of men. Tucker would share if and when he wanted to. Bringing up his mercurial moods would be construed as nagging, so she would leave him alone.

She pulled glossy pine doors open and gaped at the enormity of the walk-in closet. “Wow,” she whispered in awe as she glanced around at empty rows of shelving, drawers of various sizes, and the three-sided mirror tucked in the corner. Tucker’s mother was serious about fashion. Wren’s organized soul teemed with envy, and she made mental notes of the layout for potential changes in her own home.

Wren pulled pretty sweaters and slacks from bags and folded or hung them according to color, then she lifted the cumbersome box containing her new winter boots and shoved it on the shelf above her head. A paper fell, floating to the floor. Frowning, she bent down, picked it up, and turned it over. A picture. She glanced at the date stamped in the bottom right corner—
July 10, 1999
—and smiled as she stared at Tucker, wearing his swim trunks, standing by the pool, grinning for the camera with his arm wrapped around a girl’s slim waist. Apparently Tucker never went through a gawky adolescent stage. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen in the photo, yet he was still muscular and gorgeous. He’d added bulk and height over the years, and his facial features had sharpened with age, but he’d been a head-turner his entire life. And the girl standing with Tucker, grinning his identical smile, had the same bold hazel eyes and black hair, though hers was much longer and tied back in a ponytail.

A knock sounded on the bedroom door. “Lunch is ready.”

“Thanks.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Come on in.”

He stopped in the closet doorway.

“Look what I found.” She turned, flashing him the picture, then studied it again. “I didn’t know you have a sister. What’s her name?”

“Staci.”

“You look just alike. Must be pretty close in age.”

“We’re twins.”

“Twins?” She beamed, studying Staci, more intrigued than before. What would it have been like to share a womb with Tucker? “Who’s older?”

“Me.”

“She’s gorgeous—much better looking than you,” she teased. “What does she do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” She looked at him, puzzled. “I mean professionally.”

“She’s dead.” He turned and walked out.

“Wha… Tucker.” Horrified, she stared after him, unable to move. Dead? She looked at the grinning, vibrant, bikini-clad girl tucked against Tucker’s side and shook her head in disbelief. Turbulent waves of guilt consumed her as she placed the photo back on the shelf and hurried to the kitchen. Italian sausage and hot, fresh dough scented the air, turning her stomach. “Tucker.”

He stood at the counter, cutting the calzone in half.

“Tucker. I’m—I’m so sorry.”

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder.

“I had no idea.”

He shrugged. “She’s been gone a long time.” He gave his attention back to the meal she no longer wanted.

She stood where she was, unsure of what to say or do. Tucker may have given her one of his casual shrugs, but he still hurt. Of course he did. How could he not? He and Staci had been close. One snapshot frozen in time made that clear.

“Let’s eat.” He brought two plates to the dining room table.

Wren hesitated, unsettled by the surprisingly powerful grief consuming her for a girl she’d never known and the heartbreaking anguish for the man who still lived. What must it be like to lose a sibling—and a twin at that? If anything ever happened to Ethan… She couldn’t bear to think of it, yet Tucker lived with the reality of loss every day. She followed Tucker’s lead and took her seat, placing a paper napkin in her lap.

Tucker breathed deep. “Smells good.”

“Mhm.” She gave him a small smile and stared down at golden folded bread.

“You gonna eat?”

“Yes.” She tore off a chunk of crust and nibbled a bite she didn’t want.

He reached across the table and lifted her chin with his thumb, meeting her eyes.

She blinked rapidly fighting an unexpected wave of tears.

“Don’t.”

“I won’t,” she whispered, shaking her head, caught up in a well of empathy for the kind man staring at her.

“It won’t bring her back.”

“I feel so bad. I had no idea.” She swallowed. “I’m just so sorry, Tucker.”

“It’s all right. You didn’t know. Go ahead and eat some lunch. I’m certainly going to.” He dropped his hand, picked up his calzone, bit in, and closed his eyes. “
Mmm
, just as good as I remember.”

She picked up the loaded pocket and took a small bite. The kick of hot sausage and rich sauce twisted her stomach.

“Good, huh?” Tucker bit in again.

“Yes.” She gave him another small smile as he wiped his mouth. She grasped for something to say, wanting to move past the moment. Tucker’s shopping bags by the couch caught her eye. “I had fun today. More fun than I’ve had in a long time.”

He swallowed. “Me too.”

Minutes passed in silence while Tucker devoured the majority of his enormous half. He tossed the remaining crust on his plate and patted his stomach. “Ugh, I’m finished.”

“Me too.” She pushed back from the table.

“You hardly ate anything.”

“I’ll save it for later.” She reached for his plate. “I’ll take care of this.”

“Thanks.”

Wren walked to the sink, setting down the plates, and gripped the edge of the counter. Why did she feel like she was going to burst into tears? She
rarely
cried, yet she couldn’t shake the need to weep. Tucker seemed to be at peace with his sister’s passing—or mostly, but she wasn’t. She couldn’t stop picturing Staci’s young, beautiful face.
She’s been gone a long time.
How long?
she wondered.

Wanting to be busy, needing to focus on something other than tragedy, Wren picked up the cookie sheet Tucker had used to heat their late lunch and scrubbed away the stubborn spots of burnt sauce and cheese. Finished, she dried the sheet, put it away, tossed the remaining food in the trash, and placed the plates in the dishwasher. With nothing left to do, she stepped into the dining area and stopped. Tucker stood by the large picture windows, staring out. Despite his tough build, he appeared small against the massive panes of glass—and very alone.

Wren pressed a hand to her heart, aching for the man she was just beginning to know, and walked to him. The instinct to comfort was stronger than her need to keep her distance. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his solid back.

Tucker stiffened, hesitating, then covered her hands with his.

“This place makes you sad.”

He didn’t respond.

“The pool in the picture. It’s the one outside.”

“Yeah.”

His family had come here since he and his sister were babies. Everything made sense now. “This house. It was special to both of you.”

His grip tightened against her skin, and he turned. He held her gaze and brought her knuckles to his lips.

She closed her eyes in defense against his tender gesture and the invasion of staggering confusion it caused.

He pressed her palm to his cheek and she met his gaze. “You should go get some work done,” he said quietly.

Swallowing, she nodded. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

He slid his thumb along her jaw as he glanced at her lips.

She ached to taste him. All she had to do was step forward, so she took a step back, turned, and hurried to her room, needing to escape whatever had just passed between them.

Chapter 9

F
at snowflakes fell from the evening sky, catching the outside lights Tucker kept on. He applied deodorant as he glanced at the digital clock on the bathroom counter—six-thirty. There was plenty of time to take Wren out and be back before the latest snowstorm dumped the worst of its bounty on Park City. He walked into his room with his towel slung low around his hips and grabbed a pair of black slacks from the closet. He tugged on boxers, then his pants, and pulled a fitted white sweater from a hanger. He slid the shirt over his head and smiled as Wren’s voice carried through the wall. She’d been on the phone or Skype with Patrick for a week running. Wren Cooke was the true definition of a workaholic. From sun up to well past sun down, she was at it, designing rooms on her fancy little computer, constantly scanning stuff, or in some sort of conference call. It was time for her to come up for air.

He walked down the hall, stopping by her half-open door, watching her pace about the space with her cell pasted to her ear. Damn, she took his breath away, even in jeans and a simple lavender long-sleeve v-neck.

“No. She chose the pale eggshell yellow.” Wren huffed out a breath. “Patrick, we’re not changing the color again. Tell her the fabric already arrived and the furnishings are being made. I’ve ordered over a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of product for the room she okayed two weeks ago. I can’t eat that type of cash just because she’s decided she wants to change her mind again. Show her the plans. Remind her of how much she loves it.” She pressed a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I know. I know. She’s a pain in the ass. Yes, you have to go back tomorrow.” She grinned. “I’m too far away to bail you out.” She chuckled. “Go home, pour yourself a glass of wine—the good stuff I bought you—and put your feet up. We’ll go over the Movenbeck install again tomorrow after you’ve had a chance to relax. I’ll call Shane and set up a mani/pedi for you. Yes I do, because I love you and value your sanity. Go home, Patrick. Okay. Bye.” Wren disconnected and let loose a frustrated growl in her throat as she collapsed back among the debris covering her bed.

Tucker rapped his knuckles against wood and pushed the door open. “Rough day?”

She rubbed her temples. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He set a huge binder of fabrics on the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress. “Mrs. Cartwright giving you a hard time?”

She stopped her methodical messaging and opened one eye. “How did you know?”

“I heard the last minute or so of your conversation. You were pacing, soothing Patrick’s ruffled feathers, and dropped a ‘pain in the ass.’” He shrugged. “I put two and two together.”

She smiled. “Can’t get one by you, Detective.” She scrubbed her hands over her forehead. “That woman is driving me
crazy
.”

Tucker lay beside her, pulling a pencil and another binder from under his hip. “We could drive to LA, kill her, hide the body and be back here before anyone was the wiser.”

She chuckled and turned to her side. “Don’t tempt me. If she keeps this up, I might take you up on your offer.”

He rolled over, resting his cheek on his folded arm, facing her. They’d barely seen each other or spoken over the last several days. He’d been closed behind the doors of his room just as busy with his work as she was with her own. “Why don’t you get dressed up—Wren-Cooke-style—and I’ll take you out.”

She groaned. “I’d rather lay here and sulk.”

He swept a long wispy wave behind her ear, and she inched away. “Rumor has it today’s your birthday.”

“No it’s not. Wait.” Frowning, she sat up. “Yes it is.” She stood. “I can’t believe I forgot my own birthday. And Patrick, he always remembers. Stupid Lenora Cartwright,” she muttered, glaring.

“Ethan said he’ll call you later. He sent me a text about an hour ago. He’s been tied up on duty all day.” He’d had no idea November first was Wren’s birthday until Ethan clued him in.

She smiled. “He never forgets either.”

She didn’t say anything about her parents; obviously they hadn’t bothered to call. Bastards. For that alone he wanted to make tonight special. Tucker stood. “Since Patrick’s not here and neither is Ethan, we’ll have to celebrate on our own. Get dressed and we’ll do it up right.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m too tired, plus I have to go over plans for the Movenbeck install.”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking a little break.”

She leaned over the bed, setting right the mess of sketchpads, pencils, color pallets, her laptop, and so forth. “I took time off last weekend when we went shopping.”

His mouth dropped open, feigning shock. “Stop the presses. Wren Cooke took a morning off from work a
week
ago.”

She sent him a wry smile. “This is a huge few days for my business, and I’m stuck
here
. Brice and Mindy Movenbeck are having a big charity gathering for their foundation in the new space I designed.” She stacked furniture magazines on the dresser, then started to pace. “Tomorrow morning’s the install; tomorrow night’s the party. These are A-listers, as you know. This has to go right. Everything
must
be perfect. This is make-or-break, and I have to sit back while Patrick handles it all. Then there’s Lenora’s projects and the million other things that have to be seen to while I’m hundreds of miles away.” She stopped abruptly, set her hand on her hip, sighing, her frustration and worry more than apparent. “This stalking crap couldn’t have happened at a worse time.” Her eyes were strained, her posture ramrod straight. She needed some time away, whether she was willing to admit it or not.

“Hey.” He closed the distance between them, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve gotta take a couple of deep breaths here, Cooke.”

She stepped back from his touch. Wren had been careful to keep her distance since their moment in the dining room. Something had passed between them, something…powerful and intimate. He and Wren were just getting to know each other, but she understood him. Not many did. And she cared. Beneath her cool, guarded exterior lay a sweet, kind woman with a deep well of empathy for others. She’d struggled with her emotions at the dining room table while she mourned for him and a girl she’d never met. More than anything, he wanted her to let him back into that place where few people were allowed. Breaking through Wren’s defenses wasn’t going to be easy. He sure as hell had his work cut out for him, but as he stared at the exotic beauty with the cautious gray eyes, he’d never been more certain that she was worth the effort.

He advanced again, and she hesitated with another step back, then held her ground. He needed to touch her. He stroked a finger along her jaw. “You’re beat, Cooke. A couple hours away with a decent meal will recharge your batteries.” He moved his hand to her neck, caressing his knuckles along her soft skin, and she shuddered.

“Tucker—” She pulled his hand away. “I can’t.”

She could, and she needed to. He fiddled with her fingers. “Tell me you aren’t going to let Lenora Cartwright ruin your special day.”

She frowned.

“This is your last official year in your twenties. Put on something nice and let’s go—for a little while.”

She let loose a deep breath. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

He grinned. “See you in twenty-five.”

“Fifteen. Start your timer.” She walked into the guest bathroom and closed the door behind her.

Wren studied the gorgeous presentation of her dish as their suit-clad waiter set their meals before them. “This looks lovely.”

The waiter picked up the bottle of pinot grigio, adding to the crisp white Wren already sampled, then tipped more into Tucker’s glass as well. “Enjoy your meals.”

“Thank you,” Tucker said as he picked up his fork and knife.

Wren breathed deep and hummed her appreciation. “I can’t remember the last time I had a good piece of cod.”

“Looks like this could be your night.”

“It smells amazing.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and give it a try.”

She cut into the tender white fish, forked up a small bite, and closed her eyes, moaning as the subtle tastes melded beautifully on her tongue. “Oh my gosh. This is amazing. The hints of pesto are perfect.”

Tucker grinned. “Good.” He cut a sample of filet mignon and held the fork to her lips. “How about this?”

She held his gaze in the candlelight as she sampled the melt-in-your mouth morsel. “The chef is a genius. He’s earned every one of his five stars.”

He tasted his meal for himself and nodded. “Not half bad. I’ve never been to this restaurant. Ms. Hayes suggested it. She thought you might like it.”

She glanced around at other well-dressed patrons enjoying their cuisine. Quiet violin music added to the stuffy fine-dining atmosphere. She looked back to Tucker again. This definitely wasn’t his scene. He’s was more of a burger-and-beer kind of guy, yet he seemed just as at home here among Park City’s upper crust as he did in his atrocious apartment. “Ms. Hayes was at the house today?”

He shook his head. “Yesterday. She stopped in to check on us—brought some fresh fruits and vegetables by. She asked where you were. I told her you were working. She said I should bring you here. When Ethan told me it was your birthday, I thought tonight would be the perfect opportunity to check it out.”

“That’s very sweet. Ms. Hayes takes good care of you.”

“Always did.”

“So, how long has it been since you’ve been back?”

“Fourteen-and-a-half years.”

“A long time.” Too many memories here, she assumed. Her heart broke all over again for the man sitting across the table, but she pushed away the unhappiness. He was trying to make tonight special. “Park City’s a beautiful place.” She looked out the window as pretty flakes fell. The slopes in the distance were lit up, and several enthusiasts were taking advantage. “Do you ski?”

“Sure. You?”

“Yes.” She swallowed another heavenly bite. “It’s been awhile, though. Several years, actually, but Ethan and I have had more than our fair share of races. In fact, that’s how I broke my arm.”

His brow shot up. “Some competition.”

“He’ll do anything to win.”

Tucker paused with his next forkful. “Ethan broke your arm on purpose?”

“He says no, and Ms. Willa the same, but I’ve always had my doubts. I was about to cross our agreed-upon finish line and bam, he just happens to tangle his pole with mine, and I take a nosedive.”

He grinned. “Sounds like a conspiracy.”

She chuckled as he cut another piece of steak.

“Tucker Campbell? Is that you, son?” A tall older man stopped by their table.

Tucker stood, smiling, and held out his hand. “Mr. Follensby.”

Mr. Follensby returned the handshake. “I haven’t seen you in years. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Doing well.”

The man smiled down at Wren.

“Mr. Follensby, this is Wren Cooke. Wren, Mr. Follensby is a good friend of my parents.”

She took his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you. I hope you’re enjoying your stay here in Park City.”

“I am. This is a beautiful area.”

“It certainly is.” He patted her hand and returned his attention to Tucker. “I ran in to your pop awhile back in London. The missus and I stayed at the resort. The old man still runs a tight ship. Be sure to let him know his staff is still among the best. We were well taken care of.”

Tucker nodded. “Will do. That’s always great to hear.”

“How’s Melanie?”

“Mom’s good. She’s doing her charity work in Monterey.”

“The missus needs to give her a call the next time we head that way. Well, I should go. I don’t want to interrupt any more of your evening. It was nice to meet you, Wren.”

“You as well.”

“Good to have you back in Utah, son.” He slapped Tucker’s shoulder. “You take care, now.”

“I will, and you do the same.”

Mr. Follensby left as quickly as he’d strolled up to the table.

Wren sipped her wine, following the older gentleman’s path to the exit. “Now
there’s
a man with some energy.”

Tucker settled himself in his seat. “He’s always had plenty—used to work for my dad.”

“I see.” She’d learned more about Tucker’s family in the five minutes he’d spoken with Mr. Follensby than she had in the week they’d been in his home. She wanted to know the man across the table. “He worked at the hotel your father runs in London?”

“No, Mr. Follensby oversaw the Northeast branches here in the States for…years. He’s retired.”

“Well that’s a relief.”

Tucker frowned. “I’m not following you.”

“I was starting to think your father was Bruce Wayne and the off-limit wing at the summer home housed the bat cave.” She took another bite of cod.

He grinned. “Sorry to disappoint you. Nothing as exciting as that.”

“So, your father runs hotels in London and the U.S.?”

“Among several other spots around the world.”

No wonder they had money. With a job like that… She picked up her wineglass and set it back down as she connected the dots. “Wait a minute. Campbell Suites.”